


Fugue

by ladygrange



Category: Led Zeppelin
Genre: F/M, Sleepy Sex, Spooning, a goshdarned bearded face, and diverging wrinkles appeared round them, and thomas hardy wrote it down in 1874, but there’s really only one thing i want to write in these tags, extending upon his countenance like the rays in a rudimentary sketch of this rising sun.”, his eyes were reduced to chinks, the corners of his mouth spread till they were within an unimportant distance of his ears, “when farmer oak smiled
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:00:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28642599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladygrange/pseuds/ladygrange
Summary: “His game this evening was beautiful. He moved about the stage and had enjoyed playing far to the right, for photographers. The boy in him was great, he laughed, hopping around. However, when he played a most impressive solo guitar, music reached him and he threw his head back, bent back, and played to death and soul.” - Baldvin Baldvinss, on June 24, 1970, after the Reykjavik gig.The Hardy line in my tags is the opening of Far from the Madding Crowd. Thank you paintbox for sending me pictures of JP’s Peaches shirts from his book <33And now for some longer notes....I just want to reflect a little on my writing of the past year. I wrote 11 stories in total. I've never written or completed anything as long as Tangents Within a Framework and Out of the Way. Most of the pieces are in my main notebook, one isn’t in the archive, and one went down with the notes app on my laptop when it just….deleted everything I'd written there. Sigh. I know there’s a reason I write mostly on paper (to keep secrets from my computer) but the fact that I blindly assumed I could press a button and the app would not screw me over....is my own fault.Anyway, I write in such fits and starts, over such long periods of time, that I don't know time wise how long I spent on these stories. Looking back at the stacks of notes that I've binder and paper clipped inside my notebook, and feeling the heft of the thing, helps me assign value where it really lies. It’s in all that effort, in places I learned something.I drew a traffic intersection on one page of my Pb notes. I have a tiny, simple drawing of a sparrow for Tangents Within a Framework, and an aortic arch with all the arteries labeled, with the etymology of aorta just below. I have this bit of dialogue between Emma and JP where she’s asleep on a plane and he’s trying in vain to get her to wake up, then I realized it was coming from an old Chien Noir one shot, and I didn't have anywhere I wanted the narrative to go. And I remembered reading her, what she meant to me. How I still write to her in a lot of ways.In my notes for Missing Links, I have this bit from an NYT article on the healing power of hugs: “Hugs and other forms of nonsexual physical soothing like hand-holding and head stroking, intervene at the physical level to help the brain and body calm down from overwhelming states of anxiety, panic, and shame." I listened to JP’s ’72 Perth interview and somehow felt the need to document his emphasis on the second “E” in Zeppelin. It's not useful, but when I read it, I hear his pronunciation so clear. He arrives to my mind’s eye in a rush of delight.I have a reminder to myself, from a vlogbrothers video, to get 80% of the way to as good as I can make it, and then to stop. To not push for some ever moving, unhelpful notion of perfection. I think sometimes when I write, I post, and then I blank. I forget what’s tangible and at least a few pounds and contains all these snippets that remind me where I was, what I might’ve been thinking, what I was preoccupied with, what I still am preoccupied with (a bearded face, among other things). They bring with them a whole host of association and memory. And that is rich and worthwhile, more than anxiety about what I'm doing here or how I fit into the LZ tag on ao3.Thank you for reading, so so much <33
Relationships: Jimmy Page/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 13





	Fugue

She does not hear the click of the lock downstairs, or the footsteps across old, sloping floorboards. She does not hear the protest of the stairs or the soft rustle of discarded clothing. Dreams have her––water and wind rush by, and with each gust, the walls brace and creak.

And he does not mean to wake her at first. Not with the dip of the mattress, or his arm round her belly, pulling her back to his chest. She makes a fitful noise.

“Hush.” Jimmy’s mouth glances her ear. “Go back to sleep, Emma.”

“Thought it was tomorrow.” Her words smudge into each other, one cheek squished tight to her pillow.

“No,” he whispers. “I got in early. Left a bit before the others.”

“…time is it?”

“Late,” Jimmy tucks himself into the naked curve of her body, outstripping her with his long legs, his head notched above hers; a living cove that she sighs into. He presses his mouth to her temple, the new growth of his beard tickles. “You weren’t dreaming badly were you?”

“Mm mm.”

And for a languid minute or ten, she falls back into her sleep. A tangle of ambient noise lulls her. Soothes her. And Jimmy holds her, come many miles in a tiny plane from Iceland; he must’ve been eager to get back. The thought expands her chest in a sweet way. 

“Jim.”

Barely a voice in the dark, but he knows her. He nuzzles her shoulder.

“Emmaline.”

He strokes her belly, up and down, from her rib cage to the springy hair between her legs. His fingers spread each time he dips lower. Her eyes flutter open. Darkness paints the room a velvet black. Thick as his hair. 

It could be a dream, she thinks distantly, while his fingers sift to where she is in turns slick, soft, hard, and wanting. It could be that he has not thrown his leg over hers, though it’s how he always does. And it could be that if she turned a touch, she’d glimpse heavy lidded eyes. His lips cherried in his beard. 

“How was the convention?”

She snuggles deeper into her pillow, content with his lazy touch, with his question.

“Mm, some wonderful equipment available, some still in early stages.” She pauses for a yawn, cheeks stretching. “A few very promising reel to reels, over sixteen tracks.”

“Might be nice to have your own studio,” Jimmy offers, his hand dips lowest, practically cupping her sex.

She chuckles. “That’s _your_ dream, Jimmy.”

He hums. “Yes and you’d be a fantastic designer, Emma.”

She wiggles against him, only to receive his teeth, tugging at her earlobe. 

“You’re in danger of waking me, you know,” she says, grinning.

“Am I?” Jimmy pauses his gliding touch. He goes very still. “Very sorry, darling.”

It is not a dream. Not with the very real ache between her legs. But he is so terribly warm behind her, breathing in tandem. She reaches for his thigh, splayed across her, anchoring her down into the mattress. Very real. Coarse hair and long, lean muscle. She smoothes her hand down to his knee, as far as she can reach, and back up again. 

“You’re in danger of waking me, you know.”

She grins into her pillow and stops. Jimmy kisses under her ear. 

He can’t seem to help himself any more than she can––he makes nonsense patterns on her skin, from between her breasts to the seam of her thighs.

“Was it okay?” she murmurs. “Was the gig okay?”

“The crowd was…a bit touchy.” Jimmy ruffles her hair in a long sigh. "I don’t understand why the people in back will rush, they only end up crushing the ones in front against the stage. It’s madness.”

“You had to stop playing?”

“They didn’t want us to leave, but yes, Robert calmed them down.”

She turns her head just enough to catch her face in the low curtain of his hair. “You’re okay?”

Jimmy nods. He takes his touch from her belly to her chin. “Seems like someone gets carried off the stage every gig.”

“Would you like me to come one day? Carry you offstage?”

Tiny crinkles form outside his eyes, smiling wide. “You’d do that for me, darling?”

She settles back on her side. “Of course.”

Jimmy follows suit. 

“Basil?” He asks after a moment. “And Humphrey?”

“They missed you terribly.”

Jimmy pulls the covers further up their bodies. The wind has not died down. She wonders if a storm will come; she does not sleep well during the gales. As if sensing her apprehension, Jimmy muses, telling her more than he could squeeze into a phone call––he offers her the cadence of his breath and body. 

“We saw fisherman’s huts, the roof mossed over, old as stone.” Jimmy takes once more to his stroking. “And I had sweet rye bread spread with salted butter alongside supper. You would’ve loved it, Emma. I ate this type of cinnamon bun topped with melted chocolate.” He pauses as if to savor the memory. She grins to herself, such a sweet tooth. “Of course, there was lots of fish, lots and _lots_ of fish. The cats would’ve loved Laugardalsholl. ”

“Mmm, say Laugardalsholl again.”

Jimmy shakes her with his laughter. 

“Will you go back?”

“Mm, maybe someday.”

“Will you keep going?”

Because, of course, anticipation only sweetens the ache. And he knows it, knows to lift her leg over his and open her for him. Jimmy takes a full account: smooth hip and the tender peaks of her nipples. Jimmy tugs and rolls them with his fingertips. He hugs her - solid and soft. He makes slippery circles around her clitoris. She glides her open palm over his flexing arm, murmuring into the dark,

“I was in Chelsea the other day.”

Jimmy kisses into her neck, occupied with the fragile skin. “Mm.”

“Picked a few shirts up for you from the antiques market,” she says, smiling at the nip of his teeth.

“Peaches?”

“Yes, your favorite.”

She sees him in a white cowboy shirt with a pink yoke; a staff with quarter and eight notes down the breast––his ensuing crinkles. 

In the meantime, cradled in the remnants of sleep and his body, she drifts with his touch. Pleasure mingles with the softness in her bones. She turns into him as if she were made of water, and she meets the base of his throat, his coarse chest hair, his little sound when she kisses below his Adam's apple. 

“Emmaline.” He shapes her bottom in his hands, cupping her against his growing erection.

Such a silky hardness against her belly, so deliciously hot she can’t help but reach between the press of their bodies to stroke him slowly. She knows how without looking, with his mouth sealed to hers, tongue equally hot and searching. With her thumb, she spreads shininess across the delicate head. His belly flexes.

“So hard.” She nuzzles her words into the beard growing on his cheeks––not yet dense enough to be soft, the bristles catch her skin. She shivers at the sensation and unthinkingly tightens her grip. Jimmy twitches in her hand. 

“Inside -” His word breaks on a groan. “Emma."

Jimmy holds her hips and lifts her slightly, curling his body at the same time. She gasps at the slick intrusion, the head of his cock parts her sex, slips halfway then fully. She is helpless to that firm grip, those rocking, shallow thrusts. 

“Is it good, my darling?” His voice roughens, he’s holding back. 

She nods, eyes closed, panting. He slides deep, effortlessly. She clutches his hip - a wordless signal for more. 

Jimmy pushes her flat. 

In the hungry thrusts he gives her, in the thick, sweet pleasure where her fingers get lost in his hair, she clamps around him. She hooks her ankles to the fleshy place where his thighs lead to his backside. And she arches, crescendos, whimpering for her orgasm. 

“Emma.” He is so close she can hear the waver of his pleasure about to break.

Jimmy puts one arm under her shoulders, pressing into her, lost to the rhythm. She tightens deliberately. He stiffens from head to toe and she takes his mouth, his sounds. _Unbearable_. She's made slick with his semen.

Jimmy smothers a few more kisses against her jaw, down to her neck. He rests there with a heavy, luscious sigh. The kind that unburdens him and brings rest. She tucks her face into his neck, palms flat on his shoulder blades.

And it’s as if someone has woven her through with silver thread, glinting, shining, twined with his body. And she could stay there. Through the end of summer, through winter, with eager kisses to his hairy cheeks. Jimmy turns his head to kiss her, slow and deep. She scrapes her nails lightly through his hair, down his jaw, and back up again. Jimmy practically purrs. 

“Sleep,” he says tenderly. 

**Author's Note:**

> “His game this evening was beautiful. He moved about the stage and had enjoyed playing far to the right, for photographers. The boy in him was great, he laughed, hopping around. However, when he played a most impressive solo guitar, music reached him and he threw his head back, bent back, and played to death and soul.” - Baldvin Baldvinss, on June 24, 1970, after the Reykjavik gig.
> 
> The Hardy line in my tags is the opening of Far from the Madding Crowd. Thank you paintbox for sending me pictures of JP’s Peaches shirts from his book <33 
> 
> And now for some longer notes....
> 
> I just want to reflect a little on my writing of the past year. I wrote 11 stories in total. I've never written or completed anything as long as Tangents Within a Framework and Out of the Way. Most of the pieces are in my main notebook, one isn’t in the archive, and one went down with the notes app on my laptop when it just….deleted everything I'd written there. Sigh. I know there’s a reason I write mostly on paper (to keep secrets from my computer) but the fact that I blindly assumed I could press a button and the app would not screw me over....is my own fault. 
> 
> Anyway, I write in such fits and starts, over such long periods of time, that I don't know time wise how long I spent on these stories. Looking back at the stacks of notes that I've binder and paper clipped inside my notebook, and feeling the heft of the thing, helps me assign value where it really lies. It’s in all that effort, in places I learned something. 
> 
> I drew a traffic intersection on one page of my Pb notes. I have a tiny, simple drawing of a sparrow for Tangents Within a Framework, and an aortic arch with all the arteries labeled, with the etymology of aorta just below. I have this bit of dialogue between Emma and JP where she’s asleep on a plane and he’s trying in vain to get her to wake up, then I realized it was coming from an old Chien Noir one shot, and I didn't have anywhere I wanted the narrative to go. And I remembered reading her, what she meant to me. How I still write to her in a lot of ways. 
> 
> In my notes for Missing Links, I have this bit from an NYT article on the healing power of hugs: “Hugs and other forms of nonsexual physical soothing like hand-holding and head stroking, intervene at the physical level to help the brain and body calm down from overwhelming states of anxiety, panic, and shame." I listened to JP’s ’72 Perth interview and somehow felt the need to document his emphasis on the second “E” in Zeppelin. It's not useful, but when I read it, I hear his pronunciation so clear. He arrives to my mind’s eye in a rush of delight.
> 
> I have a reminder to myself, from a vlogbrothers video, to get 80% of the way to as good as I can make it, and then to stop. To not push for some ever moving, unhelpful notion of perfection. I think sometimes when I write, I post, and then I blank. I forget what’s tangible and at least a few pounds and contains all these snippets that remind me where I was, what I might’ve been thinking, what I was preoccupied with, what I still am preoccupied with (a bearded face, among other things). They bring with them a whole host of association and memory. And that is rich and worthwhile, more than anxiety about what I'm doing here or how I fit into the LZ tag on ao3. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, so so much <33


End file.
